High Pressure Sales
by ADE-1977
Summary: The Disc sees its first Used Kart Emporium. My first Discworld fan-fic, based on my own experiences as a used car salesman. Chapter 4 now up. More good fortune, for John at least. Thanks for the reviews, they've kept me writing.
1. Chapter 1

Chapter 1

There is a world, slowly travelling through the great cosmos aback the great turtle A-Tuin. It is a world of magic, where ideas have power. One such idea is, even now, looking for a way to be realised. It needs a very special person, simple, impressionable with a mind uncluttered by trivialities such as morality or conscience. It is an idea born on another world, out of needs and desires, tin and rubber…… Oh, and, did I mention, it smells vaguely like…….vanilla.

John Dimswick was as honest as the day is long. A curious expression as, in Johns case, all it meant was that the longer the day, the more he did wrong. He wasn't necessarily a bad man; he had dedicated his life to helping the poor. The only problem with that being that John himself was poor, so he helped himself to as much as he could. Anyone meeting him, found John to be a likeable man. He stumbled over his words, tripped over his own feet, and pondered over the questions; _why_, _where_ and _when_. This was, admittedly, when the Watch was asking the question; _why_ were you _where_ you were _when_ the crime was committed? Somehow though, this far, John had avoided the Tanty and, even more amazingly, he had also avoided the attentions of the Thieves Guild as an unlicensed thief. Most importantly however, at least for the purposes of narrative, John was a man without morals. He never considered the implications of his actions; indeed he never considered anything beyond the moment. So here he was, John Dimswick, a no-body. A criminal so petty he should wear a collar and name-tag. He was a man who, up until now, had led a life of opportunist crime, never thinking of the victim and half the time not even thinking at all.

The idea floated above the Discworld, searching, searching, until one day it twitched its metaphorical nose, locked onto the scent of the one it was searching for and swooped down into the impressionable mind of the man who was to head the Discworlds first _used kart emporium_.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

John went to bed that night feeling decidedly odd. Slipping under the sheets he told himself that it must have been the second helping of meat surprise he had eaten for dinner. The surprise, of cause, was if you could identify what animal the meat was from. He put all thoughts of dinner from his mind, wishing he could do the same for his stomach, and laid his head on the pillow.

The idea prowled about the recesses of Johns mind waiting for him to fall asleep. When the time came it seized its chance and John dreamed. He dreamed of sheepskin coats and flat-caps, of a forecourt full of carts with no horses. He dreamed of a business empire with him at the head, but, most importantly, he dreamed of the cabbage motor.

The next morning John awoke with a start. He had never felt this alive. Ideas crackled like electricity across his brain. This was unusual for John, normally when he woke it was a struggle just getting his brain to talk to his feet long enough to get out of bed. Today, though, John leapt out of bed. His brain was fizzing like a troll on Slab. Running to the door he threw it open and ran outside. "Good morning Mrs Slovell", he shouted at his neighbour. "Bloody pervert", she replied. In his excitement he had forgotten to dress. Not to worry. He went back inside and opened his wardrobe. "No, no, no", he muttered to himself. "None of this is right. Not right at all." Part of John, the tiny part that watched all the other parts, said, "Well it was alright yesterday. What's changed?" The answer to this was, of course, everything. Dressing quickly in his best, and indeed only, shirt and trousers he once more stepped out of his front door. He needed new clothes. He didn't know why. He just did. The problem was money, or at least it should have been a problem. Somehow, though, John knew that today, money was no problem at all. He rounded the corner and walked until he arrived at the Morpork Tailors for Men, a small yet expensive shop rumoured to be official tailors to the Patrician. The man behind the counter eyed him suspiciously.

"Yes sir, can I help you?" he asked in the tone of a man that knew not only the exact size of a customer at a glance but also noted bulges in the cloth suggesting a full wallet or, in Johns case, lack thereof.

"Maybe we can help each other", John countered. "I'm looking for a long coat, sheepskin. Oh and a hat, mustn't forget the hat; tweed cheese-cutter, and a suit, pinstriped double breasted".

"Very good sir, and how will you be paying for said items", sneered the assistant looking down his hawk-like nose at John.

"Well, I was hoping we could come to some sort of arrangement on that", said John. "Let's have a little chat."

Two hours later John emerged from the shop with a promise that if he returned later the clothes would be ready for collection. Part of him wondered how he had talked the man round. He had told the shops owner that the tatty old shirt and trousers he was wearing were immensely desirable and after an hour and a list of reasons why, that John couldn't now recall, the man had agreed. Indeed he had not only agreed to exchange the items for John's clothes but had begged him to bring any similarly desirable threads straight to him.

Later that day John returned to collect his new outfit. He changed in the small changing room and emerged with his old shirt and trousers, which he gave to the grateful shop owner.

"A pleasure doing business with you", John told the man and shook him firmly by the hand.

"And you sir. I hope we can do more in the future".

That night the store owner sat in his little shop looking at the clothes he had exchanged a weeks profits worth of stock for. He couldn't remember what all the fuss had been about. He did remember that earlier it had seemed the best deal he had ever made. Now, though, with his wife about due to count the day's takings, he couldn't remember why exactly. All he could think of was the look on her face when he told her and the prospect of a few cold nights on the sofa.

John was happy with his new look, but that was just the start. He had plans, big plans. All he needed was a skilled metal worker, an old cart, and a big box of cabbages. With that in mind he made his way to the Street of Cunning Artificers.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3

Hank Sturgeon had been apprenticed to Mr Humdinger for almost twelve years now. It wasn't that his skills were lacking. Indeed, in many ways, he had moved way beyond the somewhat simplistic teachings of his master. Fixing this, repairing that, stopping the other from exploding every time someone turned it on, none of these things was what Hank wanted to be doing. He wanted to be inventing things, fresh new things born of fresh new thinking. The main reason that he had stagnated in his position was that Hank was a dreamer. He had always looked to the future and as a result the present generally got a good run up before kicking him firmly in the unmentionables. Somehow, though, Hank knew that there was more out there. He was destined for bigger things.

This particular evening Hank was working late. Mr Humdinger had already finished for the day leaving him to clear up the workshop. A job that was somewhat prolonged by the unfortunate incident when Mr Hobbleton had demonstrated exactly what the problem was with his multi-rotary-bladed hedge-trimmer. It had promptly exploded covering the workshop with a shower of various cogs, gears and its owner's blood due to a particularly sharp blade that had hummed through the air embedding itself in the wall via the most direct route. This was unfortunately straight through Mr Hobbleton. When he had finished cleaning up the last pool of dark, sticky liquid he sat back and reflected on what a tragic waste it had been. Oil of that quality was worth three dollars a gallon to the right person. It was at that moment that John walked in.

"Sorry guv, we're closed. Didn't you read the sign on the door?" Hank asked the newcomer. Turning to look at the sign, a small piece of card with open scrawled on the side facing into the workshop and closed on the other, John addressed the man.

"It says open as far as I can see."

"Ah, but if you look from outside it clearly says closed. The reason being that we are in fact…closed."

"But I'm inside now and it definitely says open", John replied. "So with that settled it's on to business" and before Hank could reply the man had marched over to him, grabbed his right hand and was firmly pumping it up and down.

"Now what I'm after is a man of action, a man of talent, a man who isn't afraid to grab a bold new idea, give it life and fashion it into the future. I believe that you're that man. What do you think?"

Part of Hank knew the man was crazy. He had a strange look in his eyes. Just humour him, he thought. Decline him politely and get him out of here as soon as possible.

"What was that about fashioning the future?" he asked.

"Exactly that, you and I are going to invent the most important contraption the Disc has ever seen. Now, let's have a little chat."

Looking back Hank wasn't sure why he had agreed to help the man. He was just so convincing. He had talked at length about his vision and about the huge opportunity he was giving Hank to get on board early. And so it was that Hank had agreed. Not only agreed to build the contraption, but somehow, and on this he was really unclear, he had agreed to do it all for free.

Hank worked through the night. He wasn't even sure exactly what he was making. His hands seemed to be working independently as though they knew what to do even if his brain didn't. Eventually, just as day was dawning, he stepped back and looked at what he had made.

It was a mess of metal compartments, some empty, some filled with various chemicals which Hank had conveniently found on a shelf at the back of the workshop. Strange, as Hank would have sworn they were empty when he had scraped the late Mr Hobbleton from them just a few hours previously. The compartments were connected by a series of different pipes with one lone metal tube extending from the back of the biggest compartment. Hank had no idea what it was supposed to do; he just knew it was finished.

Early the next day John returned to find Hank sat looking at the thing, a puzzled look on his face.

"Well it's finished. Whatever it is….." Hank told him his voice trailing away.

"Don't concern your self with such trivialities", John told him. "Come along to the Ankh Morpork Annual Show tomorrow and all will be revealed."

As John and his contraption left the workshop Hank felt a sudden regret. He looked around at the mess he had made and realised he had used a sizeable chunk of Mr Humdingers materials and had nothing to show for it. Why had he agreed? More to the point, how was he going to explain to Mr Humdinger, an exceptionally unforgiving and somewhat cruel man, where his materials had disappeared to? With this thought in his head, Hank ran from the workshop never to return there again.


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4

With the Ankh Morpork Annual Show just a day away John knew he still had a mountain to climb. This wasn't a problem. Since he had dreamed his dream everything John had needed had been easily obtained. He wasn't quite sure how he'd done it. Somehow John, a previously dull and uneducated man, had known exactly what to say to get what he needed. He was a little concerned, normally he had to think long and hard about what to say to people but recently the words had just formed on his lips with his brain being somewhat uninvolved in the process. The clothes, the contraption, it had all fallen into place and that, at the end of the day, was what mattered. Wasn't it?

As he considered his next problem John was roused from his thoughts by a sudden, loud cry.

"GERROUTATHEBLOODYWAYYABLOODYIDIOT". Turning to face the source of the noise he saw a runaway cart, its horse wild eyed, foaming at the mouth and showing no sign of stopping. It was heading straight for him. A strange force took hold of John. While he should have been considering a return to the tailors for a change of trousers, he actually found himself leaping to one side, his hand snaked out and caught hold of the reins and, before the force of the charging horse could rip his arm from its socket, he had vaulted expertly onto the horse's back. Quite unsure of what to do next, John held on for dear life. Then, with no warning at all, the horse turned into a busy street full of pedestrians. Careering up the road, the horse, cart, the carts owner and a terrified John bore down on a small boy who had been a little slower than most to clear a path. A huge figure stepped into its path and in a move that defied the laws of physics the horse stopped instantly. The sudden halt caused John to fly over the horses head, landing in a heap some ten yards away. Looking back he saw the massive physical form of Sergeant Detritus, his arm, ending in a huge fist, still outstretched before him. The horse lay stunned on the ground. The carts owner clambered down and looked at his horse.

"You bloody flat footed pile of rocks. Look what you've done to my horse," the man said in an amazing display of bravado bought on by a general lack of intelligence. "What did you do that for", he continued in a similarly suicidal manner.

"Woz speeding", Detritus replied. "Doin' lots in a many zone", he continued.

"Speeding", he shouted incredulously. "I was out of control".

"Den dat is driving wivout….." Detritus' brow furrowed in a moment of concentration, "…undo care and attenshun", he finished and presented the man with a ticket. Quietly seething, and realising that arguing with Detritus was, in a very literal sense, like arguing with a brick wall, he turned his attentions to John.

"And you, jumping out of nowhere, spooking my horse like that."

"I think, sir, that your horse was already well out of control before my interference. If anything I came to your aid", replied John. Approaching the man he gripped his hand and shook it firmly.

"Well you didn't do much of a job, did you? Look at my horse, fit for the knackers yard. What am I gonna do with a cart and no horse?" asked the man dejectedly. "That's a full load of cabbages on there. How am I supposed to deliver them now?"

"It might be your lucky day", John told him. "Let's have a little chat."

Later, the former cart owner wondered why he had given the man his cart. He had gone on about contributing to humanity, about doing his bit. It had all sounded so… convincing. He wondered what the man wanted it for, and why did he want all those cabbages. He also wondered how he was going to explain it all to the customer who had paid cash up front for the delivery.


End file.
